


Non Morto

by LectersDaughter



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, M/M, Murder Husbands, and badass, fuck it I'm gonna add some spacedogs, i'm terrible at tags, mischa is alive, probably going to add some spacedogs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-05-31 03:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6453736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LectersDaughter/pseuds/LectersDaughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the infamous murder husbands evade capture and fall into their new lives together, the pair return to the states to visit an old friend. Within the fallen snow over Manhattan, Will and Hannibal don't have to search far to find what they're searching for. Will feels starstruck, while his other half surprisingly keeps his cool, as they come face to face with the one person they never thought they'd come across. Mischa Lecter. Known to all as Doctor Mischa Locke, the accomplished prodigy has almost no knowledge of her bloodline. Her last remaining relative and his beloved are determined to change that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mažai Žudikas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-Beta'd  
> I do not own any of the characters from Hannibal.

With snow covering the expanse of the vast city, this was the hospital’s busiest times of the year. From the common cold to broken limbs and other snowball-related injuries, the emergency room was just about packed. She’s there. Hiding in plain sight in the halls of the NYU medical department, before making herself known in the examination rooms of the presbyterian hospital. Never one for communal housing, she resides in a cozy New York apartment just off campus.  
The clock reads 6 pm when it wakes her, relentlessly wailing until she acquiesced.

Everyone she had met always asked her if the on-call rotations were rough, tilting their heads to the side with furrowed brows as if they genuinely cared. 

She knew they didn’t.

She’d answer humbly, all half-truths so as to resume concealed amongst the crowd of regulars. The reality was, she loved it.  
She loved the late nights and early mornings, the countless rounds and check-ups, the numerous cups of coffee and the adrenaline of emergency situations.  
She loved the feeling of working until every muscle in her body ached with a need to relent. But out of everything that the residency provided her, she loved the  
early morning, right when her shift ended. At 3 am, the city was asleep and the sun was barely showing its face. 

Now was not that time.

Crawling out of her warm bed with a groan, she trudged to the bathroom for a rushed shower.  
She hated picking out clothing. Every doctor seemed like they always tried their hardest to look like Doris Day puked on them so they could wear it to work.

She wasn’t like that.

Cursing the reluctance of her damp skin, she pulled on a deep red one-piece and black high-waisted jeans. It was Friday, its supposed to be business-casual.  
She always wore heels, whether it was boots or stilettos, she needs the height if she was going to survive in an industry flooded by people old enough to be her progenitor.  
If there was one thing that the young woman hated more than deciding between garments, it was putting on makeup. Sure, wearing it feels great, but the act of applying one product after another is something that the surgical resident finds inconvenient and inefficient. She hated inefficiency.

With a resigned sigh, she picked up the concealer and began the dispiriting task.  
Clock check: several minutes of her life have passed that she will never get back, all wasted on painting her face. She groans at the thought like a child with unfinished chores. 

“Behave, Mischa.” She reminded herself aloud. 

Grabbing her watch, phone, and bag, the soon-to-be doctor headed out the door.

It only took 9.3 minutes to reach the locker-room of the hospital, any more and her head would most likely explode.

The sound of her heels clicking on the floor was accompanied by the slams of lockers and colleagues chatting about how they are relishing in the fact that its the end of the week.  
Making her way to locker 139, she threw on the pristinely white coat whilst rolling her eyes at the first-years gloating about their latest escapades.

“Gentlemen, lets save the dick-measuring for break-time, we’ve got patients to treat.” She snarled as she stalked out of the room.

She sighed with relief as she let her eyes drift closed, with the elevator unoccupied, she could have a final moment to herself before these next few hours of chaos.

“Hey, Locke.” Eyes snapping open, she knew that she wasn’t going to get a moment peace anytime soon.

“Hello, Parnell.”

“You free this Saturday?” Mischa fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“No.”

“Damn, ‘cause I think that we’d be great together.” He dragged out each word as he stepped closer to her.

Saved by the doors opening, she slipped passed the man before caring to speak. “Aš mieliau tapti vienuole, Chad.” Her mother-tongue fell from her lips as the doors began to close.

She allowed herself a moment to chuckle before continuing on to the ER reception desk.

“Hello, Cindy.” She threw a smile to the red-head as she grabbed her assigned patient files.

“Right on time, Doctor.” Her thick southern drawl always pulled a genuine grin to the resident’s lips.

The two shared another smile before Locke turned on her heel towards the examination room.

—————

After 4 Fractures, 2 Heart Attacks, 3 Paranoid Mothers, 5 Dumbasses, 1 Anaphylactic Shock, and 6 Broken Limbs, Mischa only had one patient left.

A one Joseph Handel and his husband George was accompanying.

‘George Handel? How funny. His parents must have an affinity for classical music’ She thought to herself outside of the examination room.

“Hello, Mr. Joseph Handel?” She looked up from her clipboard to find a curly-haired man with a faded scar down his cheek perched upon the plush table.

“Hi, yeah, thats me.” His head perked up in her direction, but his eyes never met hers.

“I’m Mischa Locke, one of the residents here.” She reached out to shake the man’s hand.

He accepted the gesture without hesitation, though the subtle passing of several conflicting emotions through the man’s eyes piqued her interest significantly.

“But I’m sure you knew that already since your file states that you’ve requested me.” She quirked an eyebrow as she attempted to stifle a smirk. No one had ever requested her  
before, she was just a resident. Rightfully so, she was confused.

“I believe that would be my doing.” She turned to the man’s husband. Tall, broad, blond hair greying slightly. What caught her attention, though, was his accent. 

“I had read about you in the paper a few months ago, and when Joe’s condition started to show signs of remission, I knew that it would be wise to come to you.”

“It says here that he was diagnosed with Anti-NDMA Encephalitis several years ago.”

“Indeed. His brain suffered traumatic inflammation of the Cerebrum originating from the Occipital Lobe.” 

“Im assuming by your extensive knowledge that you are a doctor as well.”

“You assume correctly, though I haven’t practiced medicine in quite some time.”

“And even though you are a licensed physician, you are not comfortable treating your husband yourself?”

The man in question scoffed. “He may have extensive knowledge in the field, but there is no way I’m letting him open me up.”

The woman chuckled. She took a deep breath before moving towards the man. “So, what did it say?”

“Im sorry?” Came the elder man’s reply.

“The article, what did it say?” She asked as she tested the man’s vision.

“It said that you are a fourth-year resident at only twenty years of age.” He began, placing his hands in his pockets as he paced around the room. 

“You have an IQ of 147. You finished high school in 1 year, college in 3, and graduate school in 4. And that you already have your M.D. but don’t want anyone else to know.”

She turned to face him. “It didn’t say that. No one knows that I have my degree.”

He shrugged. “I may be close acquaintances with the Dean of Medicine.”

She chuckled and shook her head. “You vet all of your husband’s physicians?” She quipped, turning back to examine the man.

“No, just the interesting ones.”

“Should I be flattered by that?” She pulled her stethoscope from her neck.

“You should, he has only said that to a few select people in his entire life.” The brunet answered.

“Are you one of those people?” She raised an eyebrow once again.

“You think id be here if I wasn’t?” Though his answer left more questions in its wake, his smirk told quite the tale.

She chuckled, accepting the answer. A knock on the door interrupted the conversation.  
“Come in.” 

“Locke, these are the brain scans for a J. Handel.” And Chad continues to meddle in her business.

“Ačiū. Atstok.” Taking the scans, she shut the door without another thought. She couldn’t help the language fluctuation, it was easier if Chad couldn’t understand her. 

“You speak Lithuanian?” Her head flicked up to regard the taller man. A name to match the accent.

“Uh- yes, do you as well?” Her English lit filtered through once again, leaving her once-natural intonation in its wake.

“It has been quite some time, but yes; I was born there many years ago.”

“How funny, so was I.”

“Is that so? Your accent sounds more English than Lithuanian.”

“Ah, yes, I was born in Lithuania, but was adopted in Brighton.” She moved to the illuminated board on the wall to hang up the scan.

“What other languages do you know?”

“Several, not including Lithuanian and English: Danish, Spanish, Swedish, Italian, Chinese, German, French, Russian, Farsi, Gaelic, and Welsh.” She was forced to refill her lungs by the end of the sentence.

“Thats incredibly impressive.”

“I don’t get nearly as much sleep as I used to. When I don’t sleep, I learn.” She cut off any other attempts at continuing the conversation by flicking the board’s switch and starting up again.

“Alright, so the latest scan shows that there is no residual inflammation, but you still could be feeling some left-over symptoms. Like an amputee having Phantom Limb Syndrome.”  
She shut off the board before scribbling down a script for a mild NSAID.

“Heres a prescription for some decent aspirin. Be good to yourself; try to avoid anything too stressful.” 

She signed for discharge on the man's file, focused more on the men in front of her than her John Hancock.

"It was a pleasure, Doctor Locke." The elder man said, reaching his hand out between them.

"Indeed it was, Doctor Handel." She accepted the gesture with a firm grip, taking slight note of how the man seemed amused at the mention of his own name.

"Thank you, Doctor." The other said with a genuine smile that made Mischa want to embrace him. 

"My pleasure, Joseph." She shook his hand firmly.

The couple left without another word, leaving the young doctor free to clock out.

"Bye, Cindy. Give my best to David." 

"Goodbye, darlin', get some sleep."

Mischa took a deep breath once out of the hospital and into crisp air. She sat down on the bench just outside the main doors, rummaging through her bag for her pack of smokes.

Locating and lighting a cigarette between her lips, Mischa took a long drag as she watched the sun rise onto the pallid hospital.


	2. Numylėtinis

She had 1 hour, 51 minutes, and 39 seconds until she had to enter through the doors of New York’s most famous hotel.

The 4 hours, 8 minutes, and 24 seconds before that were used to sleep, shower, and check her alternate encrypted account for the latest completed transfer.

It came through at 11:59 last night. She was good to go.

Adrenaline immediately began to fill her veins, preparing her for the events to come later that night.

Her dark, floor-length dress awaited her, hung from her closet door with unscuffed heels resting beneath it; though it was not time to don her midnight persona just yet.

She hovered over her computer, only black lace covering a minimal expanse of her porcelain frame, before stalking over to her wardrobe.

Opening the second drawer from the top, it only took a few seconds before she had located the item of clothing she needed.

Two pale stockings; sheer and lined with black trimming to match the garter-belt ensnaring her waist.

She smiled at her figure in the wardrobe mirror before moving to sit on her still-unmade bed.

The woman’s dexterous fingers fastened the garters with practiced skill, easily securing each of the four buckles onto its respective side of the hosiery.

She took a deep breath, searching inside of herself for any lingering doubt or anxiety.

There was none.

A thought in the back of her mind pondered whether or not she was supposed to be concerned by her lack of hesitation regarding tonight’s events.

She doesn’t particularly care. She never does.

Checking her more intimate attire in the mirror, she found herself satisfied with her current state of dress.

Such a shame that this wasn’t that kind of party, she mused.

Despite her contentment with lounging around in expensive lingerie, there was work to be done.

The young doctor found herself face to face with the sable gown, thumbing the material while admiring the beautiful garment.

Only rarely was she able to indulge in the finer aspects of life, causing her to often find herself wondering if these items of luxury better belong in a gallery than in her possession.

Tossing the thought aside, Mischa slipped into the fabric, encasing herself in the expensive threads before toeing on her almost disgustingly exorbitant stilettos.

Mischa knew how to blend in. She spent years perfecting the art of appearing irrelevant, occupying her free time with research on human behavior.

A person-suit, if you will.

An elegant black dress draws much less attention than an extravagant red one. Hair up proved to be more inconspicuous than when left down.

Little tips and tricks quickly became a set of rules that the young woman lived by on a daily basis. 

Survival of the fittest; a concept the brit had dwelled on countless times over the years.

Due to having a short awkward-teen period, Misha was graced with unblemished, unscarred ivory skin.

Her watch came next, fastening it so its face was centered on her inner wrist.

Earrings came next, silver droplets worn few times.

The last of her jewelry was a simple, silver locket; the sterling formed in the shape of an anatomically correct heart. Given to her by her biological family, it was the last thing she had left of her bloodline. Inside was a picture of her first family; smiling parents, a son in his late teens, and a newborn baby girl resting in her mother’s arms. She smiles at the thought of once having a real family as she clasps the chain around her neck.

She felt the anticipation wash over her while punching in the key code to the small safe tucked away in her closet. The weapon laid unloaded against the felt interior of the strongbox next to a pair of filled magazines. Hitching her right leg up to rest on the handle of a drawer, she pulled away the silken fabric of her dress to access the holster attached to her garter. After sliding the first cartridge into the chamber with practiced ease, Mischa slipped the weapon and second magazine into the holster.

Taking a last once-over in the mirror, the Lithuanian-English woman grabbed her coat and cellphone before hastily making her way down to the street.  
Her hired driver was pulling up to the curb as her heels hit the pavement.

Ducking into the vehicle with a simple greeting to the driver, she checked her watch for the time

33 minutes and 57 seconds until the night began.  
————————————————————————————

The door opened with a flourish, revealing a young valet offering her a hand.  
“Miss. Sorensen.” She accepted the hand graciously, surveying her surroundings as she stepped out of the vehicle.  
“Thank you, min kära.” She put up the swedish facade effortlessly as she entered through the ornate doors of The Plaza Hotel.

“May I take your coat, Miss?” A young woman, dressed head to toe in a classic white and black suit, reached her hands out behind Mischa.  
“Yes, thank you.” She tipped the girl before making her way into the vibrant ballroom.

“Fröken Sorensen.” She heard behind her.

“Monsieur Moreau.” Her lips curved up into a smile as she recognized the man she was intended to meet.

“How are you this fine evening?” He asked after the two shared a peck on the cheek.

“Quite well, thank you. And yourself?”

“Im fairing well, thank you.” 

The following hour was dry; well, it was to Mischa. She was sat at a table with Moreau and a few other socialites, watching them as they drank the night away. 

It was almost too simple, getting him alone. All it took was a few carefully chosen words spoken in the most sultry of tones, and he was wrapped around her finger.

Pulling him into the spacious room closet far away from any surveillance cameras, she drew out the necessary equipment from her purse before setting to work.

The .3 cubic centimeters of Zolpidem rendered him unconscious in mere seconds, leaving Mischa with plenty of time to inject enough heroin to prove fatal.

“You don’t want to do that.” In seconds she was cocking her gun and ready to fire.

Though the sudden interruption didn’t phase her, she had prepared for such an event, what she found on the opposite side of the room cause more than enough shock to compensate.

A dry chuckle escaped her lips. “I should’ve known. What should I call you? Since you are obviously not a german composer from the 1600s.” She turned her focus back to the more pressing matter.

“Heroin is quite possibly the least effective manner of which to kill him.” Came the reply.

“I won’t be indulging you in conversation until you properly identify yourself.” She put down the gun from her purse to pick up a lighter and spoonful of opioids.

“His name is Hannibal, and I am Will.” 

“Alright, Will, why does your husband believe that I shouldnt be doing this?” She filled the syringe with the amber liquid before turning back to face the men.

“I can assure you, it is for entirely selfish reasons.”

“Care to elaborate?” 

“I would, but it seems you have more pressing matters.” He gestured behind her.

She didn’t have to turn around to realize what he meant. Feeling a shaking arm wrapped around her and the cool iron of the muzzle pressing against her temple, she quickly began calculating her options.

The room fell silent as both men in front of her readied their own weapons. She catalogued a sterling knife and a Beretta 92. Mischa could handle this on her own, thank you very much.

After sifting through numerous options, she settled on the one best suited to the current circumstances.

With a deep breath, she made her move.

The femme fatale unholstered the gun at her thigh, pressed the barrel to her left shoulder, and pulled.

Due to their height difference and positioning, the bullet sailed clean through her own flesh and into the heart of Johnathan Moreau.

Though he was clearly deceased , Mischa pressed the cloth of the man’s tie into the wound to lessen the chance of a bloodstain on the hotel floor.

She looked over at the men across the room, amused at their dumbstruck expresstions. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to help me?” She bit out.

Hannibal was gone out the back exit in seconds; off to pull their car around, Will mentioned, instantly picking up on her confusion.

The act of transporting the cadaver to the vehicle was almost laughable, reminding both Mischa and Will of the 1989 classic.

Despite the bizarre turn of events, the trio sped off without detection with a carcass in the trunk.

“You just shot yourself.” Will said, exasperated at the memory. He turned in his seat to better face the girl in the back.

“And?” She replied.

Will turned to see Hannibal’s lips quirked up in a proud smirk, running a hand down his face in resignation.

“How are you even real?” He could barely process what just happened.

Mischa chuckled. “I could ask you the same thing. How have the infamous “Murder Husbands” eluded the authorities?” She raised an eyebrow, a teasing tone threaded into her voice.

The empath remained silent for a moment, raising his eyes to the ceiling as if it held the proper words. 

Another chuckle rumbled through the girl. “Where are we going, exactly?”

“Temporary safe-house.” Hannibal answered.

“Why?”

“Well, for starters, you cannot return to your life.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because, theres evidence that a crime took place at the hotel, and when an investigation is launched, they will eventually figure out that you were the culprit.” The cannibal said, his impassive tone giving the girl the urge to slap him..

“Fuck.” Mischa groaned.

“Looks like you’re sticking’ with us, darlin’.” Will spoke softly, allowing his southern drawl to emerge for the moment.

“You seem honest, Will. Am I going to hate this?” She inquired.

It was Will’s turn to chuckle. “Hardly. Im sure you’ll fit right in.”

“A cannibal, a former FBI investigator, a contract killer, and a corpse walk into a bar…” She grumbled.

The silence dragged on before Mischa put a voice to her ire.

“You know, there wouldn’t be an investigation if you two could’ve just minded your own goddamn business.” The Brit’s words were caustic as they escaped through gritted teeth.

“Do not anxiously expect what is not yet come; do not vainly regret what is already past.” Hannibal spoke.

“Do not start reciting chinese proverbs or i swear to fuck I won’t be the only one with a bullet wound.” She groaned with an eye-roll.

Hannibal only chuckled in response.

Mischa had the burning urge to bite out another threat, but reluctantly refrained, deciding it wasn’t worth it. 

She didn’t know how much time had passed, but when she felt the incline of a driveway put their car at a slant, all she could think about was getting some much needed sleep. 

“Where the hell are we?” She asked.

“About an hour outside of the city.” Will replied.

The empath led her into the lavish country-home, shedding their coats at the door while Hannibal dealt with the cadaver.

“Is there a spare room?” She asked.

“Up the stairs and to your left. Do you need any clothes?” 

She nodded in agreement, too exhausted to argue nor refuse.

The room matched the house well, cozy and welcoming in every nook and cranny. She removed her makeup and jewelry, using all of her strength not to just crawl into the inviting bed. After all, she did have a wound to tend to.

Will came in as she unholstered her weapon, languidly checking the amount of ammunition before setting it underneath her pillow.

“I do hope that doesn’t go off in your sleep.” He quipped.

She chuckled softly. “Haven’t died yet.”

He set a large pullover and a pair of women’s sleep shorts down on the bed. “Need anything else?”

She thought for a moment. “Could you stay? I may need help dressing my wound.”

His eyes softened as he nodded, flopping down on the bed as Mischa changed.

“Where’d you get these?” She asked, thumbing at the short’s thin material.

“This house used to belong to a female psychiatrist friend of Hannibal’s; most of her things remain here.”

She was smart enough not to ask what happened to the woman.

Ducking into the bathroom, it only took a few moments of rummaging through drawers to find what she was looking for.

“Well, I’m glad this woman had an affinity for first-aid kits.” She said, holding up the white case.

Sitting down on the bed next to the man, she quickly pulled out the few items she required.

The young doctor tugged at the collar of the jumper, testing its elasticity before deeming it acceptable.

She pulled down the collar to extract her arm and shoulder before examining the wound up close.

“Nothing major, no permanent damage, pretty damn good job as far as self-inflicted gunshot wounds go.” She snickered.

“You are by far the happiest person to ever shoot themselves.” 

“I can’t really argue with that.”

A breathy hiss replaced her chuckles as she cleaned the entry wound with an alcohol swab. “Could you help me with the exit wound?”

“Of course.” Will replied before moving to sit behind her.

They worked in silence, focused on completing their dual tasks with minimal scarring.

“Playing doctor, Will?” The Lithuanian voice spoke from the doorway.

“She’s the doctor, I’m the nurse.” The empath corrected, keeping his eyes on the wound as he stitched it closed.

The cannibal pulled up a chair in front of Mischa with a contented twitch of his lips. “How are you feeling?”

“Better; less like an atomic bomb.” She breathed out a chuckle while her fingers completed the stitch-work.

Hannibal nodded, letting silence sit comfortably between them before speaking again. “You put a bullet through your own shoulder so it could go through another’s heart.”

“Didn’t see that one coming?” She quipped.

Looking to the man in front of her, she found herself confused at his expression of genuine pride. “What?”

“Hm?” The man’s eyebrows raised in question.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Im afraid I do not know what you are referring to.” 

“You’re looking at me like a father looks at his child when they’ve punched a bully in the face.”

Hannibal chuckled before responding. “Have you considered that I may be feeling in such a way as the father from your example? ”

“You’re not my father.”

“No, I am not.” 

His eyes flickered with something unidentifiable, filling Mischa with fleeting confusion before she tucked it away for a later time.

“But you want to be.”

“Not necessarily.”

She thought one the implications of the men's paternal attitude toward her before coming to a conclusion. “You feel a sense of obligation and responsibility towards me.”

“Yes.” 

Will finished his work with a satisfied hum, tucking her arm back into the sweatshirt before speaking up. “He’s possessive by nature.”

“And what about you, Will? Do you feel the same way as your counterpart?” 

“Yes.”

She was slightly taken aback with their honesty, expecting a litany of politicians answers and blatant lies. “Okay.”

“Okay?” The brunet asked.

“Okay, I'll stay.”

“Goodnight, numylėtinis.” Hannibal whispered to her, a candid grin spread across his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave any comments below. Constrictive criticism is welcome.


	3. Chapter 3

Hello there! I have decided that I am not happy with how I have written this fic so I have begun to re-write it. It is titled "The Darling of Monsters" and you can find it on my ao3 page. 

xxx Wren (lectersdaughter)

**Author's Note:**

> Just a first draft and I may change a few things at some point. x


End file.
